


Covenant

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-22
Updated: 2005-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treasure is hard to find, and harder to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covenant

Curt lay under an arc of blue, sky of denim faded by years. Everything around him had been washed clean by a gentle rain, drops of it still beading on the grass, soaking his clothes along where he lay.

Tiny drops of it hung in the air, prismed by the uncovered sun, a bow of colors searching from the sky for the treasure buried below.

Curt traced its path with his finger, knowing that its end would move with him should he choose to follow, the reward it promised forever out of reach.

He breathed them in, the clean air, the soothing water, the reflected colors, all deep inside.

~*~*~*~*

His mouth tasted the red of anger, his skin burned with it. He shouted red, threw red, wanting to smash the red screen behind him, the red of Jerry’s suit, the splashes of red in the pattern of Brian’s shirt.

Splash of red at the corner of Brian’s mouth.

Flames always leave ash behind. Ashes of what he’d lost bitter on his tongue, smothering the red.

~*~*~*~*

He remembered eating oranges by the seaside with Brian. They’d laughed like little boys, kissed like grown men. Feeding each other tastes of vibrant orange. He remembered the bitterness of its skin, the tang remaining on fingers, mixing with the sweetness of the fruit.

~*~*~*~*

The Curt in the mirror was a stranger, a stranger with yellow hair. He thought he might like it, this new Curt. A Curt reworked by Brian. A piece of re-mastered music, dancing to a new beat.

He might like it; the yellow hair, the gold suit. Dancing to Brian’s piping. But he looked at Mandy, with her yellow hair, with her gold outfit. Linked by their hair, linked by their clothes, linked by their lover.

Sometimes you started to hate songs you’d loved, if you played them too much.

~*~*~*~*

The pin glowed green, just like it had when Brian had first given it to him. Back then green had been the color of new love, of balance, of a healthy relationship.

It was jaded now. Gold given over to brass, verdigris marring its shine. Brian closed his eyes, and the red hearts in them changed to green dollar signs. And the only green Curt had was a pin that glowed with a love now gone.

~*~*~*~*

Blue into blue, as a bit of Brian’s hair fell in his eyes. Curt had preferred the blond, with its streaks of brown and gold. But he’d learned not to say that. He moved blue hair aside, but couldn’t move his blue mood. Electric blue.

He’d hated electricity once. Hated its arcing blue light, hated the pain that followed its dancing path, and hated the pain it could never erase.

But he’d learned to love it. The freedom it had bought after he’d paid its price. The feel of it running through his guitar, burning through his veins. Loved it like he loved Brian, even the distant Brian of the electric blue hair. Loved the blue-haired demon that didn’t seem to need him.

Blue hair under his fingers, red lips on his own. Blue mood washed away, his body shuddering in a St. Vitus dance fueled by St. Elmo’s blue fire.

~*~*~*~*

Sitting in a hotel room, notebook on his lap, his mind bleeding indigo across its pages. Not his words, though. The image of Brian in his gold ringmaster’s outfit kept whispering in his ear, Wilde’s words from Wild’s mouth. “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold.”(1)

His world had changed, its indigo remains streaked on crumpled white, littering the floor beneath him.

~*~*~*~*

Bruises were blood pooled under flesh. Dead blood, bruised flesh. Red blood, violet flesh.

Bruised eyes, dead eyes. Violet bleeding to black, as twilight gave way to night. He walked the streets of Berlin, wandering, wondering. He couldn’t stop looking for Brian, even when he knew he wasn’t there.

Bruised soul, dead soul. Lost now, always lost. ‘Where am I, I don't know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on’.(2)

No going back, only going on.

Black night bleeding to red dawn, orange rays slanting from a yellow sun. Shining on green grass below a blue sky.  
Warming the indigo of his jeans, the violet of his bruised heart. A covenant.

A covenant of one, because he was alone, lonely. But going on.

/story

1\. “The Picture Of Dorian Gray”, Oscar Wilde.  
2\. ‘Unnamable’, Samuel Beckett.  



End file.
